


Talkin' 'bout My Generation

by Margaery



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Fucking, Generational Change, M/M, Opposites Attract, Sexual Bets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margaery/pseuds/Margaery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a training week with Nick Kyrgios that's turned into something more, Roger Federer makes an ill-advised bet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talkin' 'bout My Generation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [louis_quatorze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/louis_quatorze/gifts).



> Roger and Nick did train together for a week [in May](http://www.smh.com.au/sport/tennis/australian-tennis-star-nick-kyrgios-holds-his-own-with-roger-federer-20140518-zrgq3.html). The results cited throughout the fic are canon.
> 
> However, although these characters are inspired by the public personas of living people, nothing is implied about the actual Roger Federer or Nick Kyrgios.

_may_

The vibrancy of youth pours off the Australian underneath him. For so long, Roger's been used to Australia being represented by Hewitt, canny stubbornness and filthy mouth, fighting the approach of retirement just as Roger is himself.

This one has a filthy mouth too, but in slightly a different way than Hewitt, with his girlfriends and model wife and brood of curly-haired blond children. An entirely different generation.

“Gonna be Roland Garros before you get a fucking move on,” the teenager says, grinning up at him with a mouth full of sharp teeth. “Too old to get it up?”

Roger's sure he wasn't as irreverent when he was nineteen, but it's a turn-on, oddly enough. “Old enough to know what to do with you,” he says, reaching down to get a sure hand around Kyrgios's cock. 

Kyrgios bites his lip, but doesn't make a sound. He reaches to pull Roger down into a kiss, but Roger shakes his head. “No kissing?” 

“I don't do that,” Roger says, using a flick of his wrist that used to drive Roddick mad. 

“You just want to push me down and fuck me,” Kyrgios says, which is an accurate assessment of the matter. “What if I want to fuck you, old man?”

Roger raises an eyebrow at him. “Do I need to get a tie to gag you with?”

“You like me talking,” Kyrgios says, that maddening accent sliding into a drawl. “Chicks dig the accent, bet you do too. I could fuck you real good, I'm fantastic...” He cuts off, as Roger slides a finger over his hole. It's too fast, too early, but it looks like Kyrgios likes it a bit fast; he arches up into it, biting his lip again, looking thoroughly debauched and beautiful.

Roger leans down, not for a kiss, but to speak in Kyrgios's ear. “You haven't earned the right to fuck me yet,” he says, dropping his voice into the guttural range.

It doesn't have the intended effect. “You only give it up for Rafa, huh?” Kyrgios says, although his voice is uneven now, as Roger squirts lube on his fingers and slides one into him, long and sure and inexorable. “Bet you bend right over for him. But you'll be old and fat and bald by the time I win that many slams. Not fair.”

“You'll never win that many slams,” Roger says. The kid's talented, but there are other talents in his generation. And Rafa's not even done winning slams yet, he's sure. 

“How about after I win my first?” Kyrgios counters. “Could be at Roland Garros. You ready?”

Roger adds another finger and watches Kyrgios's eyes go unfocused. For all his bravado, he doesn't think the teenager's done this that often. Certainly not with the greatest tennis player of all time, and he feels a certain unwilling respect for Kyrgios's cocky bravado. It may be a front – it's certainly a front – but he'd rather have fight like that any day than the awed respect that some on tour treat him with.

“You won't win Roland Garros, not with Rafa there,” he says.

“I'll beat Rafa before you know it,” Kyrgios shoots back, his easy tone belied by the way his hands clench in the sheets and the vein standing out on his forehead.

Roger doesn't say anything for a while, concentrating on the task at hand. He waits until he's sinking into Kyrgios's body, fast and firm and sure, to lean down again. “You beat Rafa, you can fuck me,” he says, dirty and low.

“Fuck,” Kyrgios gasps, taken by surprise, and uses his legs to bring Roger closer.

//

_june_

Roger starts getting nervous when Kyrgios defeats Gasquet, saving nine match points. That's the kind of match that can announce a player, the kind of match that can give him confidence that he _is_ the real deal, that he belongs on this stage.

(Roger thinks Kyrgios already had that belief – in spades – but the point stands.)

Rafa's won two Wimbledons, including arguably the greatest match ever played. He's just won Roland Garros over Djokovic. Surely he has the goods to defeat one cocky, exhausted Australian.

(Rafa also lost in the last two Wimbledons to Lukas Rosol and Steve Darcis. There's a reason why Roger's getting nervous.)

“Good luck,” he tells Rafa, when they run into each other in the locker room. 

Rafa smiles, the big open smile that is only for Roger. “You too, Rogi.”

Roger's not really worried about Robredo. Yes, the US Open happened last year, but that was an aberration. And this is grass.

He is, however, worried about an Australian with a filthy mouth.

//

_july_

Seve doesn't understand why Roger has conflicted feelings about the draw suddenly opening up. It's not like you can exactly say, _oh, I promised Kyrgios he could fuck me if he beat Rafa, and oops, that's what he's done_.

He half expects Kyrgios to show up at his house that night, probably with condoms and lube, radiating “I'm going to fuck Roger Federer!” for all to see. But common sense must have carried the day, because Kyrgios stays away, preparing for his first Grand Slam quarterfinal no doubt.

Roger focuses on his own quarterfinal against Stan. He's not as worried as he should be; for one thing, even though Stan beat him in Monte Carlo fair and square, this is grass not clay, and for another, the Wimbledon schedulers have fucked up Stan's schedule and this will be his third match in three days. Stan may not be as old as Roger is, but three five-set matches in three days is brutal for anyone's body. (Roger tries not to think about the fact that the reason he may not be too worried is that his focus is somewhat divided at present.)

He beats Stan, and Kyrgios loses to Raonic, another brash young stud. The young ones are so abrasive these days. Perhaps it's a cyclical thing, a throwback to an earlier era. He much prefers the mutual respect and perfect manners he and Rafa have.

Kyrgios still doesn't arrive to collect.

Roger knows he won't have forgotten. An open license to fuck the greatest tennis player of all time isn't something you just forget, like a practice session, or which key opens which house, or how to hit a smash.

He gets a text the morning after the quarterfinals. He has no idea how Kyrgios got his number, but perhaps Stan was more bitter about the shitty scheduling than he'd thought.

_see you in Toronto :)_

Roger puts his phone away and tries to concentrate on Wimbledon. Later is later.

Still. Shit.

//

_august_

Roger can tell, just at first, that Kyrgios doesn't really know how to start. It's different when someone else is running the show, easy to lie back and mouth off. Harder to muster that same cockiness when you have to back it, when you're the one in charge.

But Kyrgios has had his coming-out party now, and he visibly masters himself. Slowly but confidently, he backs Roger into a wall inside his hotel room, big hands coming up to bracket Roger's head. Roger turns his head away from the first kiss, but Kyrgios says softly, “You too scared to do it my way?”, and Roger turns his head back. He recognizes the challenge, of course he does, but he's a competitive man, and just because he can recognize a dare doesn't mean he's immune to it.

Kyrgios kisses slow and thorough, his thumb rubbing slow circles behind Roger's ear, like he's trying to understand everything about Roger from the inside out. It's not bad, exactly, but neither is it what Roger wants. He slides a hand behind Kyrgios' neck and takes charge himself; Kyrgios gives back as good as he gets, and shoves a big thigh between Roger's legs as well, which is entirely satisfactory.

Finally, when Roger is – not to put too fine a point on it – riding Kyrgios's thigh, the Australian draws back, flushed and well-kissed. “Come on,” he says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I bet you've got an enormous bed somewhere.”

Kyrgios is naked by the time they get there, long bronze limbs and just the barest hint of a pudge at his stomach. Roger still has his shorts on, but Kyrgios runs a hand over his bare chest, before using it to push him down onto the bed.

He tries to start the kissing again, but Roger laughs. “You didn't come here to make out with me. Come on.”

“Just trying to settle you down,” Kyrgios retorts. “You're as nervous as someone playing his first Grand Slam.”

“I am not,” Roger says, stung, and bucks his hips up sharply. 

“Okay, if you say so,” Kyrgios says, grinning, and starts sliding down Roger's body.

It's not that Roger hasn't done this before. He has, and even if it isn't Kyrgios' business to know who he's done it with, he has no complaints. He doesn't have some burning need to dominate, or a fear of being taken. He actually quite likes being fucked, really, if it's done by someone who he trusts and who knows what they're doing. The thing is, he doesn't think either qualification applies to Kyrgios.

“Didn't get a chance to do this last time,” Kyrgios says, pushing Roger's shorts down and then ducking his head to take Roger's cock into his mouth. Roger sucks in a breath – whatever experience Kyrgios has or hasn't, he's fucking good at this. Maybe Hewitt is less straight than he's always thought, or maybe the other young Australian, whose name he's forgotten, is more than Kyrgios' friend. Whoever has taught this man to suck cock, however, has done a filthy job, and Roger surrenders his body to the sensations.

After a while, Kyrgios thinks he's being ultra sneaky by nonchalantly insinuating a finger, but Roger doesn't care enough to protest. This rendezvous was always going in one direction, and if Kyrgios wants to try to be coy about it, it doesn't matter to him.

“Yeah?” Kyrgios says, softly, and works two fingers in, fucking him with them at a slow, steady pace.

“Come on,” Roger snaps. He knows he wasn't as slow with Kyrgios back in May, though part of that was because Kyrgios wouldn't let him. He's not some fragile soul, needing to be babied along. He doesn't want tenderness, doesn't need allowances to be made. If they're going to fuck, he wants it fast, intense, powerful, like playing tennis on a day you can't lose.

“Okay,” Kyrgios says again, his voice firming, and pushes at Roger's legs until they fall open for him, giving him free access for whatever he wants.

He's bigger than Roger remembers, which at once helps explain the cockiness and is deeply unfair. Somebody that brash and sure of himself shouldn't have a big cock too, it should be compensation or something. But the slide of his cock into Roger's body is huge, overwhelming – and yet just this side of “too much,” completely perfect. 

Kyrgios doesn't try to take it slow, not anymore. He pushes in without stopping until he's balls-deep, and Roger shuts his eyes and takes it, concentrating on breathing. God, he's missed this. Ever since... but no, he's not going to think about the past, he's going to concentrate on the here and now, the feeling of getting fucked again, the intensity and the heat.

“Come on,” he says, once he adjusts, forcing his eyes open to glare up. Kyrgios has held still, agonized, but he must be burning to move. “Come on already.”

Kyrgios obeys.

Roger will feel this tomorrow, but he has a bye in the first round. Seve won't ask questions – none of them will. He can give himself up to this, can enjoy every minute, and he does.

In the middle, Kyrgios bends to kiss him, and Roger kisses back.

//

_september_

Kyrgios doesn't repeat his Wimbledon heroics at the US Open. He makes it to the third round before bowing out to Robredo. Roger, who's been there (just last year, in fact), can sympathize. There are quite a few clever old men like Robredo around the tour these days, making the next generation's lives difficult. He's proud to be one of them.

“Good luck, dude,” Kyrgios says, in the locker room, as he collects his bags.

Roger nods. “See you next year, Nick.”

Next year, he thinks, watching the kid swagger away, and for many years to come.

//


End file.
